How Do You Like Them Apples?
by LuckyLadybug
Summary: Lucius Bowen, alias Pinto, is a very colorful sort of fellow with a shady past and an insatiable love of apples. In this series of short stories, Napoleon, Illya, and Mr. Waverly interact and cope with Lucius when he's recruited as a new agent by Mr. Waverly, due to the strange circumstances surrounding his case.
1. Gown

**The Man From U.N.C.L.E.**

**How Do You Like Them Apples?**

**By Lucky_Ladybug**

**Notes: The characters are not mine and these assorted stories are! I had an idea a while back to make H.M. Wynant's character from **_**The Fugitive**_** episode **_**Masquerade**_** an U.N.C.L.E. agent. (Long story.) These are assorted short stories exploring his interaction with our canonical men from U.N.C.L.E. And while H.M. developed the character, who is called Pinto in the episode, he doesn't speak. So I had to develop a speech pattern for him based on how I interpreted his attitude and actions. This first piece has already been posted on the Livejournal community MFU 100, with my Insaneladybug account. All pieces, unless otherwise noted, have been written using those themes.**

_**#32 - Gown**_

"Mr. Waverly has been quite cryptic today."

Napoleon glanced over as Illya spoke. The Russian was sitting at the console, adjusting dials and gazing into the static-filled screen that he was attempting to clear.

Napoleon shrugged in response. "Oh, I don't know," he said. "He's always rather cryptic, isn't he?"

"But this was right after he heard that news story about the runaway witness being sniped at by an assassin," Illya said. "He made a telephone call and then hastened out the door."

"I'm sure we'll learn all about it soon enough," Napoleon said from his perch on the edge of the table. "Mr. Waverly will probably be back any time now with the news. And it probably won't be as Earth-shattering as you're wondering, Illya."

"We shall see," Illya said calmly as he turned another dial.

xxxx

Mr. Waverly did not return until late that night. Illya, slumped over the still-broken console in exhaustion, only awakened when Napoleon tapped him on the shoulder.

"Oh, Illya? Mr. Waverly's back," Napoleon called. "And he has an announcement to make."

"Hmm?" Illya groaned, starting and then slowly moving back in the chair. "Mr. Waverly?"

"Yes, that's right," came Mr. Waverly's voice from the doorway. "If it isn't too much trouble, Mr. Kuryakin, would you and Mr. Solo join me in the corridor for a moment?"

Illya stumbled up, his hair falling into his eyes in his half-awake state. "Is anything wrong?"

"No, nothing is wrong," Mr. Waverly answered. "Not that I'm aware of, at least."

"Illya was wondering where you ran off to in such a hurry," Napoleon said. "I must admit, I've been growing rather curious myself."

"I was . . . collecting a new recruit for us." Mr. Waverly stepped into the hallway, his trusted agents right behind him.

Napoleon stopped short, baffled now. "You don't usually do that, Sir."

"I know, but the situation was most unusual and awkward." Mr. Waverly glanced back to him and Illya. "We need the extensive information the man has. And he most likely will have a contract out on his life, if he doesn't already."

"_He?"_ Napoleon repeated. "Alas, then it's not that lovely young lady witness in the newspaper."

"She's married," Illya reminded him. "Is it her husband?"

"It isn't him, either," Mr. Waverly replied. "But it is someone connected with that case." He started walking again, leading them around a corner.

Two attendants were standing by, a gurney between them. On it, a dark-haired man raised up slightly, curiously, at the sounds of the voices and footsteps. The thin blanket around his shoulders slipped down, revealing the bandages and bruises along his shoulders and arms.

"Hey, Mr. Waverly," he called. "I took this thing off. I hate it." He held up the hospital gown in one hand, crumpled in his disdain of it.

Mr. Waverly stared at him. "You disrobed right in the corridor?!"

"Well . . ." The younger man grinned wickedly. "Of course not. I got into my clothes in the washroom. Some of my clothes, anyway."

One of the attendants sighed, throwing up his hands in exasperation. "We stopped him from putting on his shirt or jacket," he admitted. "He's still in pain from that fight, even if he won't agree. And he cracked several ribs. He needs to rest before engaging in any further strenuous activities."

"Yes, I quite agree," Mr. Waverly mused.

"Mr. Waverly, who _is_ this man?!" Napoleon exclaimed.

"He doesn't exactly seem like U.N.C.L.E. material," Illya added, folding his arms.

"He isn't," Mr. Waverly replied. "But he is efficient at what he does. And, as unpleasant as it is, there are times when U.N.C.L.E. needs men with his . . . skills."

Napoleon suddenly stiffened. "He isn't the assassin," he gasped. Illya also stared.

"Lucius Bowen, at your service," the newcomer smirked. "Or I will be, when I'm not so under the weather."

Mr. Waverly nodded, looking tired. "He is the assassin. I offered him the choice of either staying at the hospital where he was and possibly being killed by an assassin himself, or coming with me, giving us the information he has about his former employer's criminal operations, and working with us to topple his empire."

Napoleon was gaping. "But Mr. Waverly . . . !" he cried with a wild gesture.

"He is aware that if he doesn't behave, the offer will be withdrawn," Mr. Waverly said calmly. "But one thing Mr. Bowen always is, is efficient. I don't believe we'll have any trouble from him."

Lucius nodded. "What's one employer or another?" he said. "Anyway, if I'm here, I can't be arrested for doing my job. I'll like that."

Mr. Waverly sighed. "I'm certain you will.

"Take him to his room, please," he addressed the attendants. "And see that he's kept secure."

"You'll be watching me, you mean," Lucius mused.

"Mr. Waverly would be a fool to trust you completely at this point," Illya spoke. "And Mr. Waverly most certainly isn't a fool."

Lucius shrugged. "Fine." He leaned back, allowing the weary attendants to wheel him down the hall. But he waved as he passed. "I'll see you tomorrow, Mr. Waverly."

Mr. Waverly nodded in his direction. "You will."

Napoleon stared after them. "I know we have a division of assassins out of necessity, but _him?_" He shook his head. "This is going to be very _interesting,_ to say the least. He's quite a character."

"I'm afraid you don't know the half of it, Mr. Solo," Mr. Waverly replied. "He has very particular tastes. He wanted one other item added to the offer."

Napoleon tilted his head to the side. "And what would that be, I wonder? A well-furnished apartment? A new gun? A beautiful secretary?"

"None of the above. He wants a lifetime supply of apples."

Both Napoleon and Illya were staring again. "Apples," Illya repeated.

"Out of everything he could have, he wants a common fruit?" Napoleon said in disbelief.

Mr. Waverly nodded gravely. "All the apples he can eat."

". . . And how many can he eat?" Illya wondered.

Mr. Waverly regarded him in all seriousness. "I daresay I'm afraid we'll find out."


	2. Computer

**Notes: This is the first time I've made it clear in my U.N.C.L.E. stories (aside from a long crossover story that introduced Lucius elsewhere) that the setting is the present day. I used to think it had to be a period piece, but when I actually saw the show, it looked to me like it could fit any modern time from the sixties on up.**

_**#30 - Computer**_

Illya was usually such a wizard with all types of technology, from the simple to the complicated. That was something Napoleon was used to and relied upon. And Illya's aloof patience was almost legendary. When Napoleon heard a frustrated _smack_ coming from the computer lounge, he hurried in, filled with disbelief.

"Illya, what on Earth . . ." he started to greet his partner and friend. Illya's hand was still hovering in the air above a computer tower.

"It's this blasted machine!" Illya cried. "I can't do a thing with it!"

"Now, now, Illya, we mustn't hit the computer as though that will help," Napoleon intoned, adopting a falsely scolding inflection. On the monitor, it looked as though every single icon and program was zipping past in rapid succession. The hard drive was making equally rapid noises, as if every process in its system was active at once and pushing to win some sort of computers' race.

"Nothing helps," Illya snarled. "As soon as I signed in for today, intending to check my email, it began doing this!"

"Then just get up and try a different computer," Napoleon said, still unruffled and rather secretly amused at the plight.

"I will conquer this one," Illya vowed. He turned back to the keyboard, desperately typing in more commands. If anything, the speed at which the programs were flying past only increased.

Napoleon covered his mouth to hide his smile.

"What's going on here?"

The crunch of food made both agents look up. Lucius was limping into the room, one hand on a cane and the other on a golden apple.

"Are you sure you should be up?" Napoleon greeted him, his attitude shifting to cautious standoffishness. He was still not sure what to make of Mr. Waverly's decision to bring a character like this into the fold. On the one hand, he had faith in Mr. Waverly's ideas. On the other, Lucius had been a career criminal, a hired gun. It was difficult to forget that.

Lucius shrugged. "I was bored." He glanced to Illya, who seemed to barely notice his presence. "What's wrong with the machine?"

"That is what I would like to know!" Illya cried. "I will have to notify Mr. Waverly that this computer is beyond repair."

"Is it now?" Lucius limped closer, curious. "It almost looks like someone's hacked into it."

"Our computers are supposed to have the utmost security," Illya said in annoyance. "There has never been a hack into U.N.C.L.E. HQ in the past."

"Yeah, but this isn't the past," Lucius said calmly. "I'd say that whoever's behind this is on the other end right now, doing everything they can to drive you up the wall."

"And they are succeeding," Illya growled.

Serious now, Napoleon looked Lucius up and down. "How good are _you_ with computers?" he queried.

"Not bad." Lucius bit into the apple again. "But they're not my specialty."

"Do you know them well enough to cause something like this?" Napoleon gestured at the monitor, which was still going bonkers.

"No," Lucius frowned. "And I don't pull practical jokes. They're pointless, inconvenient, and generally rude."

"Ah. And just what would you call gunning someone down in the street?" Napoleon returned.

"A job," Lucius said flatly. "Don't forget, Mr. Solo, that Mr. Waverly brought me in to do pretty much the same thing here. There's no need for your high and mighty act."

Napoleon nodded. "I suppose I wonder how long you plan to stay with us," he said. "Only until a better offer comes along, I imagine."

Lucius shrugged. "I don't expect there could be a better offer. No prosecution, good pay, and . . ." He chomped into the remainder of the apple. "As many of these as I can handle."

"Yes, you've certainly been cleaning out the kitchen," Napoleon remarked. "I've heard rumors that the cafeteria has to order apples more than once a week."

"I'm not the only one eating them," Lucius said.

"No, but you're consuming the greatest number of them," Napoleon countered.

"You may not like me, Mr. Solo—and it's completely obvious that you don't—but I think you'll find that I'm efficient and reliable. I'll be a good agent in the field."

"I have little doubt of that," Napoleon said. "I imagine you won't be plagued by those pesky emotions that creep up on the rest of us."

"I'm trained not to be," said Lucius. "As far as I know, so are you."

Napoleon inclined his head slightly, conceding to that truth.

"There!" Illya exclaimed.

Both Napoleon and Lucius turned to look. The Desktop screen had settled down, with all of the icons in their proper places. The hard drive was no longer making frantic noises.

"Congratulations, Illya," Napoleon declared, in mock solemnity. "You have conquered the computer."

But no sooner had he spoke than a word processor suddenly popped onto the screen. Napoleon looked to the mouse. Illya's hand was not on it.

"They're still there!" Illya cried in fury. "How?!"

A strange message began to type itself into the pure white of the program. The three agents crowded around, staring at it in varying shades of disbelief.

_Yes, Mr. Kuryakin, my congratulations! I can hear everything you're saying._

_Oh, but don't worry—I can only hear whatever is said on this particular computer_

_station, and I'm sure that U.N.C.L.E. will have me locked out again before long._

_Is that Pinto I hear in the room with you? Pinto, an U.N.C.L.E. agent? I can hardly_

_believe what my ears are telling me!_

Lucius had gone stiff. "Who are you?" he demanded. "How do you know my codename? Do you work for Blackburn?"

_No, not at all. And don't worry, Pinto, I won't be telling him about this. I'm not one of the "bad guys" any more than you are right now. _

_Mr. Kuryakin and Mr. Solo, Pinto isn't the only one of you I've met before. We also_

_met, very briefly. But I don't imagine either of you remember that._

"Give us your name and perhaps we will," Illya said coldly.

_I don't think so. But I __**will**__ tell you, Mr. Kuryakin, that I have the feeling you would_

_be gutted if you knew._

_I'll sign out for now and you can get your precious computer back to normal. Goodbye!_

And the word processor closed before the strange typing could be saved.

For a long moment, the trio stayed staring, silent, still trying to process exactly what had happened.

Napoleon was the first to speak. "Should I go tell Mr. Waverly now, Illya?"

Illya scribbled something on a piece of paper. "Let's all go," he said. "It seems as though all three of us have something to be concerned about now."

He placed the paper on the keyboard, leaning it against the monitor.

_Out of order._

"I couldn't have said it better myself," Napoleon remarked.


	3. Rope

_**#14 – Rope**_

Mr. Waverly calmly listened to the agents' tale of the malfunctioning, hacked computer. He was leaning back in his chair, his hands laced against his chest.

"Mr. Waverly, what do you think we should do?" Napoleon asked at the close of their narrative.

"Well, Mr. Solo, what were you _going_ to do?" Mr. Waverly returned.

"We've sealed off the computer in question," Napoleon said. "And we've already notified the computer lab about the hack. They should be working on it right now."

"Good," Mr. Waverly nodded, sitting up straighter in the chair.

"But Sir, the culprit appears to be someone from our past," Illya said now. "Only we can't seem to think of who it could be."

"Apparently he's someone you might remember more than Mr. Solo, judging from his comments," Mr. Waverly mused.

"Yes, we came to the same conclusion," Napoleon said. "Unfortunately, it hasn't helped much."

"Well, think harder!" Mr. Waverly advised as he climbed out of his chair. "There's a possible maniac at large, insisting he knows you, and you don't know what manner of disasters he might bring forth next!"

Illya looked down. "We are aware of this, Sir." He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I suppose the next step is to start examining the records of all of our past cases."

"Yes, that would be a good start," Mr. Waverly agreed.

Napoleon winced. "That will take hours," he said. "And perhaps we didn't even record that particular person."

"Then you are not making complete reports," Mr. Waverly returned. "You had best get to it, Mr. Solo. I'm sure Mr. Bowen will be available to help you." He eyed their assassin recruit, who raised an eyebrow in surprise.

"Mr. Waverly, I'm not here to go through old files," he objected.

"You can't do much else until you're fully healed," Mr. Waverly returned. "And it will give you a good chance to get further acquainted with Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin. You may be working with them on future cases."

"Wonderful," Napoleon muttered.

"What was that, Mr. Solo?"

Napoleon looked to Mr. Waverly with a start. "Oh . . . we'll get right on it, Sir," he promised through partially clenched teeth.

It was shaping up to be a very long afternoon indeed.

xxxx

Two hours later, the three agents were still in one of the conference rooms, stacks of files spread all over the long, oval table.

Lucius made a face as he deposited yet another folder onto one of the stacks. "This is why I make it a point to be observant on my assignments," he said.

"We generally are, too," Napoleon said in irritation. "This stranger informed us that we'd only met him briefly and that he doubted we'd remember him."

"Don't forget that he also said I would be 'gutted' if I knew his identity," Illya said, running his fingers through his bangs to brush them out of his eyes. "If that is meant to be a clue, I am not getting it."

Lucius shrugged. "Maybe it's someone you stabbed in the course of a mission?"

"Yes, but that is a very long list," Illya said flatly.

"You often go around knifing people in the stomach?" Lucius gave a dark smirk. "And your partner thinks _I'm_ brutal."

Napoleon deliberately ignored him. Illya, meanwhile, was frowning in curious concentration.

"I don't make a habit of it," he said. "The problem is, most such people are just lackeys whom I see and fight with for a very few minutes. I can't possibly remember every one of them."

"And whoever this is most likely knows that," Lucius pointed out. "He dropped a clue because he thinks maybe if you think hard enough, you might remember him. As far as I'm concerned, it means that whoever this is must be someone you met in a situation other than a free-for-all."

Napoleon slowly nodded, having to silently concede to the logic of that argument. "Perhaps someone we encountered two-on-one?" he mused.

"Perhaps," Illya agreed.

The sudden clattering of something on the roof above them startled them all to attention. ". . . The pigeons are certainly restless today," Napoleon frowned, starting to take out his gun as he rose from his chair.

"That's too big to be pigeons," Lucius declared, grabbing up his cane.

Not to be left behind, Illya chased after them both.

None of them were sure of what to expect on the roof of U.N.C.L.E. HQ, but it most certainly wasn't the sight of what seemed to be a giant piece of toast with arms and legs.

All three agents stood stock still in the doorway, staring and gaping.

"Please tell me I am imagining things," Illya exclaimed.

"Then we must be under group hypnosis," Napoleon said. But he rubbed his eyes anyway, half-wondering and half-hoping the sight would go away.

It did not.

"Do-gooders, beware!" the toast sneered, turning to face them. It was wearing a red mask and cape and was adorned in yellow-and-red tights. It was also holding a toaster. "I am the Toastinator!"

". . . Okay," Napoleon said slowly. "And exactly how do you know that we are 'do-gooders'?"

The Toastinator shrugged. "I've seen your pictures in the paper."

"And may we assume you are a villain?" Illya spoke.

"You may." Another sneer. "I am an arch-villain."

"Well, I guess if someone dresses up like a piece of toast in his spare time, he must have at least a _few_ screws loose," Napoleon muttered.

"If you're an arch-villain, we're going to have to stop you," Illya said.

"I'm only walking across this roof," The Toastinator replied.

"Yes, but you're trespassing," said Napoleon.

"Take this!" Without warning The Toastinator turned the top of the toaster to face the group. The tab popped up and the contents went flying.

"Look out!" Napoleon yelped. He and Illya shot at the incoming toast, while Lucius batted his cane at it. The slices of toast, which were really high-powered projectiles, fell to the roof.

Cackling madly, The Toastinator turned and ran to the edge of the roof by the time their battle was finished. Shooting out a grappling hook, he swung to the next building on his rope. "We'll meet again, do-gooders!" he yelled.

The agents ran and limped to the edge, but they were not quick enough to catch him. In a puff of burnt smoke, he vanished.

Napoleon held an arm to his mouth, coughing. ". . . I have to say, I think that was one of the strangest experiences I've ever had," he declared.

Lucius half-turned, coughing too. "I always heard New York was full of eccentric people," he said.

"This goes far beyond eccentric," Illya said.

"You don't suppose he's the person we met in the past?" Napoleon wondered. "Under a different identity, of course."

"I wouldn't think so," Illya frowned. "But then again, anyone who can rewire a common household toaster to be a deadly weapon must have quite a knowledge of electronic devices."

"Exactly my point," said Napoleon.

"There's nothing we can do about it now," Lucius frowned. "We might as well go back inside. We'll probably see him again."

"Hopefully not too soon," Napoleon declared, as he turned to head for the door.

"I second that," said Illya.

"Seeing him again, at any time at all, would be too soon," Lucius said matter-of-factly.

Napoleon had to admit he felt the same.

xxxx

"Well, Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin have certainly had an interesting day," Mr. Waverly mused from his office. "Mr. Bowen as well."

The man he was addressing pushed back his dark fedora hat. "You didn't count on that nutter they just dealt with, did you?" he wondered.

"Oh no, not at all." Mr. Waverly glanced up at him. "I had only planned on your little interruption and had hoped to teach my agents how to work together in peace while attempting to decipher the truth of your identity."

A thoughtful nod. "I guess they've been doing alright with that."

Mr. Waverly nodded as well. "It will take them a while to get used to each other, of course. Particularly considering Mr. Bowen's past profession. But I have hopes that they will eventually warm up to each other, perhaps with a bit more of your help."

"And that Toastinator fellow, too, maybe," his visitor remarked.

"Maybe," said Mr. Waverly.


	4. Candy

_**#89 – Candy**_

Of all the most interesting and unique places to stake out, a candy store had to rank among the very top of the list. Napoleon and Illya sauntered up and down the aisles, pretending to take the utmost fascination in chocolate and peppermint and butterscotch. Well, for Illya, at least, the interest was not entirely an act.

Lucius, tagging along to observe but still recovering from his battle scars, remained near the counter. From what Napoleon could hear, he was inquiring about apple-flavored desserts.

"You'd think he'd get tired of them after a while," Napoleon remarked. "Some of the agents have been joking that he'll probably get fed up sooner or later and it will be a source of amusement for years to come."

"Unlikely," Illya replied, reaching to take down the newest variety of Lindt chocolate truffles. "He told me that apples have been his favorite food since childhood."

"Illya, are you actually planning to purchase everything you're amassing?" Napoleon stared at the basket slung over Illya's arm. Boxes and bags of candy were stacked to the rim.

"Why not?" Illya returned. "We have to look interested. You might benefit from a box or two yourself, Napoleon. If you don't care to consume any personally, I'm sure you can find a beautiful lady who would appreciate the gift."

"Hmm. You do have a point there," Napoleon mused. He took a renewed interest in the shelves.

"You changed the subject on purpose," Illya said after a moment.

Napoleon paused. He should have known better than to try to fool his partner and friend. "I suppose I'm wondering how our esteemed assassin came to chat with you about his childhood," he said. "The both of you are usually so aloof."

"It was an offhand comment," Illya answered. "I haven't spoken with him that often." He straightened, looking to Napoleon. "But you, my friend, have certainly been watching him like the proverbial hawk."

Napoleon shrugged. "I want to know what he's up to. I suppose I still don't really trust him."

"But you trust Mr. Waverly, don't you?"

"That doesn't mean I necessarily think that every decision he makes is a wise one."

The conversation at the counter had stopped. Curious, Napoleon removed a box of peanut brittle from the shelf and peered through the opening at the counter. Lucius was leaning against the counter with his back to it, munching on a miniature apple pie bar.

"How many of these to a case?" he asked after a moment.

"Twenty-four," the clerk replied.

"I'll take two cases."

Napoleon shook his head. "Lucius enjoys apples almost as much as you enjoy eating in general, Illya."

"Food is one of life's greatest pleasures," Illya said, stepping out of the aisle.

"Perhaps, although I can think of other things I enjoy even more," Napoleon smoothly returned.

The opening of the door prevented Illya's response. Both agents glanced over, watching as a blond man in a trenchcoat and fedora wandered into the store. Dark sunglasses completely concealed his eyes.

"If he's trying to blend into the scenery, it isn't working," Lucius grunted.

"You don't think _he's_ one of the men we're waiting for," Napoleon exclaimed.

"He's far too obvious," Illya added.

"Which is why he's a suspicious character." Lucius finished the dessert and started writing a check for the two cases.

"More than that, I have the strangest feeling I've seen him somewhere before," Napoleon frowned.

"I am having the same feeling," Illya declared. And he intended to do something about it.

He immediately walked over to the newcomer. "Excuse me," he greeted. "Have we met?"

The man turned, his sunglasses slipping down his nose and revealing unimpressed blue eyes. "Where would I have met you before, mate?" he asked, his British accent thick and unmistakable.

"I don't know," Illya frowned. "Perhaps I have made a mistake. I apologize."

The other man moved on, crossing to the front aisle. Illya returned to stand with Napoleon and Lucius, still scrutinizing the newcomer.

"You don't really think you're wrong, do you?" Lucius grunted.

"No," Illya replied. "Not when Napoleon feels the same way. But I cannot place him at all."

Lucius slid the check across the counter. "At least do you know if he's an ally or an enemy?" he asked.

"I would be inclined to say enemy, but perhaps it is just my bias," Illya shot back.

"It's strange, you know," Napoleon commented. "We hardly ever see anyone dressed in such a cliché manner. You would think he would stand out more in our memories."

The man in the trenchcoat selected several items and brought them to the counter. Lucius moved to the side to allow him room, but kept himself propped on the counter with a forearm.

"These two men think they've seen you somewhere," he said.

Seemingly uninterested, the stranger took out his wallet and handed the clerk several bills in American money. "I don't see how that's anything to me," he said.

"It probably isn't," Lucius shrugged. "Unless you did something that should keep them remembering you."

"Maybe," the British man said slowly, "_they_ did something instead." Thanking the clerk, he took the shopping bag and moved to depart.

Napoleon stepped into his path. "Now just a minute," he said, keeping his voice both smooth and dangerous. "I believe you should explain that last remark."

"I was merely making a suggestion, Sir," was the equally smooth reply. "By the way . . ." He glanced over his shoulder. "You're looking well, Pinto."

Lucius went stiff. "You know me?" he demanded. Now he was as interested as Napoleon and Illya.

A smirk. "We met a time or so. Of course, that was long before any possible meeting with your new friends." He touched the brim of his fedora and weaved around Napoleon, heading briskly for the door.

Napoleon and Illya promptly gave chase, with Lucius limping behind. But just as they lunged to tackle him, the stranger dived outside and around a corner. Running to catch up with him was no use; he had vanished.

Napoleon ground to a halt, exasperated and frustrated. "Well, he's gone."

"And now I'm more than a little interested to know who that character is," Lucius frowned.

"You don't have any ideas at all?!" Illya exclaimed.

Lucius thought for a moment. "Maybe one," he conceded. "But it doesn't make sense."

"What about the last few days _has_ made sense?" Napoleon countered. "If you have any ideas at all, I for one would welcome them."

Lucius hesitated, leaning on his cane. "I remember a British assassin," he said slowly. "Just a young kid, really. He wasn't one of the top men in the business, but he didn't do too badly for himself, even if he did like being cliché and obvious. Then someone found him mysteriously stabbed in Hyde Park."

Illya stiffened. "Dead?"

Lucius shrugged. "He was never heard of after that."

Illya turned, looking to Napoleon. "Napoleon, do you . . . ?"

". . . I _vaguely_ remember a young British assassin," Napoleon said slowly. "You twisted his hand around and stabbed him in his stomach with his own knife."

Illya stared down the vacant street. "'I would be gutted if I knew,'" he muttered. "Of course; that's it!" He turned back to Napoleon and Lucius. "That's the man who hacked into U.N.C.L.E.'s computer the other day. He knew about Lucius. And that's what he was talking about when he said I'd be gutted—it was a clue, a reference to when I stabbed him!"

Napoleon raised an eyebrow. "Alright, so that could very well be true," he said. "But we still have more questions than answers. What is he doing here? Is he out for revenge?"

"If he is, he's playing games first," Illya said.

"And he's going to be back," Lucius added flatly. "But probably not today." He turned, limping back towards the shop.

Napoleon frowned. "Just where are you going?"

"Back inside," Lucius said. "I bought two cases of that dessert, if you remember."

Napoleon sighed. "We're being stalked by a very not-dead British assassin and he still chooses to get his apples."

"Well," Illya said calmly, "perhaps the food will help us to think better on what to do. Not to mention, we're still on a stakeout, Napoleon."

With that, he followed Lucius inside. He had a basket of treats to buy.

Throwing up his hands in exasperation, Napoleon trailed after them.


End file.
